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COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



When Lilacs Bloom 

AND OTHER POEMS 



'By 
MARETTA R. McCAUGHEY 



^ 



Published 

After her Death, January 7, IQ07, 
By Her Husband and Children 



Cincinnati, Ohio 
PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 



.A \^^ K 



Copyright, 1909, 
By G. B. McCaughey 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two CoDie.s i^eceived 

MAY 10 1»09 

Gopyrti^nt tntry ^ 
CLASS CC ^Xc 1^0. 



To 



Of the Author of These Poems, Whose Love 
She Prized, This Book is Affectionately 
Dedicated By Her Husband and Children. 

G. B. McCaughey, 
Edith B. McCaughey, Roy B. McCaughey. 



CONTENTS 

When Lilacs Bloom, 9 

When Summer Croons Old Earth to Sleep, 10 

To Find the Best, 11 

**FoRLo! The Winter IS Gone,*' 12 

Harvest, 13 

Strange Things, 14 

Love's Flowers, 15 

Trust, 16 

The Needed Touch, 17 

Had We a Gift, 18 

My Italy, 19 

Prayer OF the Brittany Fisherman, 20 

The Turn in the Lane, 21 

Idle Silences, 22 

Fog, 24 

*' That Far Country,*' 25 

Tribute to McKinley, 26 

*' Shortly Before Dawn," 27 

Resurrection Morning, 28 

Died — Aged Eighty, 29 

Unser Vater, 30 

Only One Way Home, 31 

The Lily Taught Me, 32 

What If Some Day, 34 

The Leaf and the Star, 35 

Perennial, 36 

Brierdale in Arcady, 37 

5 



Love's Path, 38 

The World at Large, 39 

With the Edelweiss to the Sea, 40 

Fern Seed, 42 

Spring Rondelay, 44 

Stars in the Fire, 45 

Nest Building, 46 

Locust Blossoms, 47 

Summer at the Ohio Farm, 48 

Summer AT THE Indiana Farm, 49 

A Rain in June, 50 

Apple Blossoms, 51 

June Songs, 52 

Sapphire and Opal, 53 

The Shadow of Summer, 54 

Through Country Lanes, 56 

The Forsaken Road, 57 

Sing, • • • • 58 

A Rest in the Music, 59 

Elspeth Knitting, 60 

Margaret's Youth, 61 

Little Rhody, 62 

*' Jess Nice AND Comfor' able," 66 

A Legend of Exmoor, 68 

Defying Fate, 72 

O Nature, Unsympathetic ! 73 

As Mahmoud Did, 74 

Charity, 75 

Our Limitation, 76 

Hatred in Nubibus, 11 

Thy Beulah Land, 78 

One Flower of All, 79 

Motherhood, 80 

6 



Identification, 81 

The Brother of Low Estate . 82 

The Brotherhood of Man, 84 

Ploughed Under, 85 

Her Gift, 86 

Let the Flag Be There, 88 

The Outgrown Nest, 89 

Questionings, 90 

With Broken Harp, 91 

Found, 92 

Hester Prynne, 93 

Plagiarism, 94 

Why Waits Queen Summer? 95 

Indian Summer, 96 

The Thanksgiving Test, 97 

The Day*s Reckoning, 98 

St. Silverus— a Christmas Legend, 99 

An Autumn Thought, 100 



When Lilacs Bloom 

I always see the dear old homes 
Framed in between the purple plumes 
That shade, we know, the ^'company rooms'' 
When lilacs bloom. 

The world seems now a better place. 
I gladly turn a happier face 
And keep in step with quickened pace 
When lilacs bloom. 

As we grow old it always seems 
Less time between the purple gleams, 
And more and more we have our dreams 
Of some glad time the years may bring 
Of lilacs' constant blossoming. 
Then we shall know Eternal Spring 
When lilacs bloom. 



ii 



When Summer Croons Old Earth to Sleep " 

'T is in September days when all the bees 
Go winging back, by early twilight caught 
E'er half the honey 's gathered that they sought 

In golden plumes and in the purple lees 

Of hanging grapes. Then sweet the sunshine flees 
As tho' a mother's hand had deftly wrought 
A shadow o'er the child that will have naught 

Of sleep while yet a ray of light he sees. 

Some day, when Summer croons our years away 
Mayhap we '11 hie us home with tasks half done — 

Mayhap we '11 see the twilight of Life's latest day 
With sad, rebellious eyes that seek the sun, 

Then sweet 't will be to find that Shadow Gray 

Is like a mother's hand to shut the world away. 



10 



To Find the Best 

Though the commonest songs are sweet to hear, 

And gladly we welcome the robin's cheer, 

Yet we listen, entranced, to sweeter songs 

From the dense, dark woods where the thrush belongs. 

In the leafy gloom the nightingale bides — 
In the far, blue sky the lark's song hides. 
On the ocean floor lies a wondrous store 
Of beauty we never shall see on shore. 

Then why should our hearts go sorrowing so 
When a darkening shadow rests so low 
That we miss the sun ? Hid there in the shade 
Mayhap God's tenderest touch is laid. 



11 



* For Lo ! The Winter is Gone ! " 

(Song of Solomon.) 

O, the rose-red sap is rising 

In the apple trees again ! 
O, the dainty, pink-veined tracing ! 
O, the bits of color chasing 

Thro' the sweet spring air again ! 

Are we old ? We feel new stirring 

Dreams now rose tints that were gray. 
Are we young ? O ! Youth is glorious 
When the warm, spring air, victorious, 
Drives the cold and snow away. 

Naught too hard for fresh beginning 
Life is pushing thro' the earth. 

Ever new is Spring's returning — 

Ever new the pulses yearning. 
Old or young, for newer birth. 



12 



Harvest 

O, the glory on grain and tree ! 
O, the joy that it is to be 

Alive to see 
The prophet's picture of fruitage fair 
Crowning the clod and seedling there 

Immortally ! 
And yet man falters and will not own 
The victory o'er Death that God hath shown. 



13 



Strange Things 

That a bird can sing and bring 

A forgotten thought, 
That a rose's hue may do 

What words can not — 
Bring back to the heart a part 

Of childhood's years, 
And turn the cycle of time to rhyme 

Devoid of tears. 

Yes, they may hold and fold 

Us in close embrace, 
But to song and scent belong 

That higher trace 
Of a Hand that swift can Uft 

The meshes crossed, 
Thus setting us free to see 

That naught is lost. 



14 



Love's Flowers 

'* The Summer flower is to the Summer sweet." 

— Shakespeare. 

So sweet a floweret Love may grow 

For one brief year 
That Time forever more may know 

No cause for tear. 

If to one summer thou art sweet 

Let this content 
Nor waste the glorious hours fleet 

In discontent. 

What matter if the year can tell 
When frost stars gleam 

How fair a bloom thou gav'st so well 
To summer's dream? 



15 



Trust 

To-day God knows if primrose bloom 
Or nettle's sting shall find their room 

Within my life. 
To-night He knows what lines of light 
May cross each other on my sight 

When Dark is rife. 

To-morrow shall His knowledge fail 
To guide my shallop that it sail 

Past hidden bar ? 
To-day, to-morrow can not mean 
An ill His love hath not foreseen 

And known afar. 



16 



The Needed Touch 

* 

A bulb I hold, and fold 

In earth. Its roots send shoots 

Of lily stems so tall that all 

Who see will smile 
That hidden deep in sleep 

Such beauty grew the while. 

Sometimes we feel revealed 

The self -same thing 
In human hearts, whose part 

In life we bring, 
Full oft to view with few 
Forecast ings of the rare, fair 
Blossoms unrevealed. 

Might not our love, above 
The life concealed. 
Sometimes enfold the cold 

Dull thing and give 
That quickening gain o'er pain 

That bids men live ? 



17 



Had We a Gift 

We say, Could we but sing 
And thrill and stir the heart 
With voice too sweet for art, 

What harmonies would ring. 

Could we but sing ! 

We say, Could we paint sky 
And sea and mountains grand. 
We 'd bring from shadow land 

Rare scenes where fancies fly. 

Could we paint sky ! 

Could we but take the stone 
And guide the chisel so 
That symmetry should grow, 

What perfect forms alone 

We 'd carve in stone ! 

Alas ! We know nor melody, 
Nor rapturous hint of color shown, 
Nor power of life in frozen stone 

By touch of ours can ever be, 

Alas ! not one can be ! 

But life hath music — wordless songs 
Born of content ; and there are hands 
So gently skilled they carve Love's bands 

Round hearts of stone. To these belong ; 
And thou may'st carve and paint and sing, 
Not for the world, but for its King. 

18 



My Italy 

** Past the Alpine summits of great pain 
Lieth thine Italy.'* 

— Rose Terry Cooke 

There is a Presence that can lend 
A joy — a soothing sense of rest 
To weary days — a joy so blest 
That heights or depths of weary pain 
We almost count with sense of gain. 

I know my Italy is there, and God 
With loving tenderness has trod 
The path before. I do not dread 
The Alpine summits overhead. 



19 



Prayer of the Brittany Fisherman 

** Keep me, my God ! My boat is small ; and wide 
The ocean stretches far from any shore.** 

With rough hands lightly clasped and head bent low 
In tender reverence, he speaks his Guide 
Upon the stormy sea, lest ill betide. 

Then, henceforth leans he on his fragile oars 

With fearless heart, since One doth watch beside 

His boat thro' all that dreary space from shore. 

O, soul ! bespeak this Guide upon Life's sea, 
Then, fearless, turn thy oars against its waves. 

He knows when storm-tossed billows carry thee 
Beyond thy strength, and He will quickly save 

Thy fragile barque. Pray only, "God, keep me,'' 

And summer calm may rest on stormiest sea. 



20 



The Turn in the Lane 

Was it yesterday in the morning air 
That we saw the bloom on the hedgerows fair, 
And ran, with eager, childish feet, 
Thro' flowers and dew-wet grass to meet 
The turn in the lane ? 

The way seems long to-day, and hot — 
How far it seems — that cool, green spot ! 
How soon our steps much slower grew, 
How often our friends were lost to view 
At the turn in the lane ! 

When, one by one, we hjave met Life's turns 
And gained the knowledge of him who learns 
That the lane of life must narrow down 
To a dusty path thro' hedgerows brown 
To the turn in the lane. 

May we feel a Presence leading us on 
Past the dusty stiles to the turn beyond ! 
Then we will not walk in doubt and fear. 
Since we know our Father awaits us here 
At the turn in the lane. 



21 



Idle Silences 

Full oft we hear of idle word 
That never conscious meaning stirred 
Within the mind, and yet the years 
Swift turning brought the saddest tears 
That it was said. 

'T is true, and yet 
Full oft we think doth vain regret 
So follow silence. Once I knew 
That some kind word of mine was due 
An ailing friend. I said, Some day 
I '11 speak the word, then went my way, 
Content to let the silence stay. 
Nor dreamed that she could go away 
To that Dread Silence where no speech 
Of human love or hate may reach. 

Sometimes I think we take no note 
Of all the sound from noisy throat 
Of singing bird, but let it cease 
And soon we miss it, ill at ease 
And conscious of a wrong indeed 
So jarring that it righting needs. 
The idle pebble of a word 
May, haply, fall where never stirred 

22 



The evil ripple in the hearer's mind, 
While silence darkens all, we find 
With sad commotion. 

Ah, friend, 
While yet we may, let us attend 
Not less to idle word, but more 
To that vague hush which, reckoned o'er, 
Affrights us in account with Life. 
Far more than words with evil rife. 



23 



Fog 

I was so near the garden wall ! 

So near the vines and maples tall — 

The lawn, the house, each well-known place, 

And yet the fog hid every trace 

Of every dear, familiar face. 

A little world drew near apace 

And shut me in. So small and round, 

So narrow, dark, and cold I found 

No hint of all that lay so near 

Of beauty, life, and things that cheer. 

But soon a rift grew wide and high, 
And sunlight flashing from blue sky 
Revealed each well-remembered spot 
The fog had lately blotted out. 

Since then, when days bring mist and doubt 

And shut the love of God without, 

I Ve seen full many a sunbeam shed 

Its waves of light above my head. 

And as I look thro' rifts of cloud 

I find familiar paths to God. 



24 



"That Far Country 

So far that country lies away — 
So far, when youth is strong and gay, 
And Life has known no yesterday, 
So far it lies away. 

So far when our beloved go — 
'T is far, indeed, or there would flow 
The sweet love words we cherish so 
When our beloved go. 

So far, so far, yet swift the years 
And oft the shore, outlined thro' tears, 
Seems very near and soothes our fears- 
So far, but swift the years. 



25 



Tribute to McKinley 

God's will be done/* — President McKinley *s last words. 

Write now, O poets, but thy verse must be 
The grandest tribute ever sung or said — 
Ye who would write us verses for our dead, 

Dip deep thy pen in all the toiling sea 

Of humankind and write how dear was he 
To those who struggle there for daily bread — 
Then lift thy pen and touch the heights instead. 

Where laurels crowned him all deservedly. 

O poets, write, but let thy verses bring 
To us, who mourn a leader, statesman, friend. 

This better thing for our true comforting — 
God's will was his. In all the mighty trend 

Of his eventful life so has he won 

World plaudits and great love, tho' life is done. 



26 



66 



Shortly Before Dawn " 



How still the guards about the sacred tomb 

Ere yet that strange, sweet message broke the gloom 

With peace unknown and surety in the room 

Of scoffing doubt ! What wondrous flower 

Of Love, new blossoming with gracious dower, 

Sprang forth! What melodies were heard that hour! 

What sweet, new Voice seemed through the darkness 

drawn, 
Waking the world to know Death's night was gone ! 
What sweet, new touch lay on each aching heart 
With wondrous soothing, past all mortal art. 
That bade its sorrows cease, its fears depart. 

O, Messenger beloved! O, Voice sublime! 
O, Melodies ! O, Touch of Love Divine ! 
Our darkest hour is yet God's chosen Time. 



27 



Resurrection Morning 

** The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.'* 

— Lead, Kindly Light. 

But who is it who can, at first, be sure 

The morn will come ? Who can endure 

The long night's dark with all its spectral gloom ? 

The dread uncertainty — that silent room 

The darkness fills where never any touch or word 

That trembling hand has felt or throbbing ear has 

heard, 
When such dear hands have loosed from life 
And we must meet alone the strife — 
Alone ? God help us, but for most 
There is no thought but that all love is lost. 

How dulled the stricken heart may be 
To all that comforts only God can see 
And He, with never any startling touch, 
Sends thro' the darkness first the hush 
Preceding dawn and then, with wondrous care, 
The soft, gray dawn for us to bear 
Until we see through tears' relieving flow 
The blessed promise of His morning glow — 
The Resurrection Morn. ''The night is gone. 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since and lost awhile." 

28 



Died — Aged Eighty 

(In memory of Reverend Meeks, Findlay, Ohio.) 

Never an instant deserted 

The place God had said to him, "Fill ;'' 
Never a yielding of muscles 

Or brain to the strength of the will. 
From the dawn, full of rest and ambition 

When life was a glow of delight. 
Thro' the morn to life's burning meridian 

And on to the darkening night. 

Never a meadow's cool byway 

Had tempted from highway and dust ; 
Nor bird song or beauty had rivaled 

The strong heart's devotion and trust, 
Until God's comforting message 

He heard from the darkening West : 
"For thy fourscore years of endeavor 

There remaineth unending rest." 

O, heavenly country of promise ! 

Of all beautiful things and rare, 
None thrill the heart of earth's traveler 

Like the "Rest that remaineth there." 
So short seems past struggle and effort 

When life's sun fades away in the West; 
So long seems the wondrous requital — 

"For aye there remaineth a rest." 

29 



Unser Vater 

Our Father ! Such a world of tenderness is bound 
In these two words. In every tongue the speech 
The same sweet, wondrous power doth teach 

Of watchful love; and nowhere else is found 

Expression true in such harmonious sound 
Of all the heart's deep pathos, love to reach 
With instant meaning. Never other word can teach 

The thrill of Everlasting Strength around 
Our human weakness. 

O, sweet it is to know 
That One doth ever hear and heed our cry 

From out earth's darkness, waiting still to show 
How vain is fear, how soon can terrors fly 
A Father's love. Unser Vater, so we cry, 
And humbly claim Thy kinship high. 



30 



Only One Way Home 

If thou wert lost, and one should say to thee, 
"I know but one way to thy home ; that way 
A rocky path o'er mountains drear and gray 

With pending storm,'' thou 'dst say, ''Show me 

This way." And straightway thou wouldst haste to be 
Ready to face all terrors on the way. 
Scarce waiting for the dawning of the day, 

So glad, so glad the homeward way to see. 

God shows us oft that but one way is ours 

To the eternal Home, and it may be 
That we must leave a path thick-strewn with flowers 

For path so bleak and hard we scarce can see 
The way for tears ; but fail not, for each hour 

Will surely bring Home's shelter nearer thee. 



31 



The Lily Taught Me 

I found in my garden a lily white 
Daintily sweet in the morning light. 
A dewdrop lay in its throat of snow 
And the sunlight gave it a diamond's glow. 

But the lily faded, and Summer passed, 
And Winter's ice-chain bound it fast. 

Then I saw a marvelous lily of frost. 
Sparkling far more than the one I had lost, 
And the frost king laid it on bed of sheen 
Where the mid-summer lily before had been. 

But the cruel sunshine quickly sent 
My lily again into banishment. 

With chisel I made by a fountain's brim 
Another lily with snowy rim. 
O, it was fair in its marble snow. 
With the frozen dewdrops sparkling so. 
I laughed to think how the sun would try 
To drink my nectared lily-cup dry. 

At last ! I cried, I have one to stay ! 
It is mine, my lily, from day to day. 
But a Presence came with a sadder touch 
Than the sun had sent thro' the noonday flush, 

32 



I could see in the sparkling petals of stone 
No hint of Hie ; it was death alone. 

I marveled much that the flowers dead 

Had never inspired a somber dread, 

While the lily I wished to immortal be 

Had only a message of death for me. 

Could it be, I questioned with reverent speech, 

That the fading flower was sent to teach 

The beautiful step from earth to air 

Of the living germ that slumbered there? 

Heart, art thou lonely with lily of stone? 

Forget it and think of God's lilies alone, 

Not lost, as we deemed them, but growing more fair 

In His beautiful garden awaiting us there. 



33 



What If, Some Day 

What if, some day, when clouds have thrown 

A dreary gloom o'er all the room, 

A sweet and friendly soul should come 

And win the sunshine in ; 

Should cheer your heart, and make it glow 

With hope's fresh impulse. You would know 

Your place no more with trace 

Of cloud or gloom: you 'd welcome him 

With joyful haste. 

Yet, One doth seek 

Us in our narrow rooms, close shut 

With doubt's dark shades about — 

One who doth long to send 

Such transformation, as thy generous Friend, 

To all sad hours of gloomy doubt ; 

And you — and I — still keep 

Him locked without. 



34 



The Leaf and the Star 

So far apart ! yet the star is glowing 

This summer night 
With love-lit rays in the azure showing 

Its sweet, soft light. 
And high on the maple, shyly keeping 

Tryst with the star, 
A dainty leaf is slyly peeping 

Thro' leafy bars. 

Too high, you say, for an earth-born thing- 

O winds, ye wait ! 
For Love will come with a ready wing 

Ere it is late. 
Now see ! the leaf is crimson and gold ! 

O winds, stay down ! 
For a frost star sparkles upon the fold 

Of a bridal gown. 

Death, you whisper ; but can you tell ? 

Winds, cease your strife. 
Death or life, there 's a marriage bell 

And Love is Life. 



35 



Perennial 

*' Just a foolish flower that forgot to blow 
Till the frosts were white again." 

So it seemed as the dead leaves lightly tossed— 
Just a careless waste of the hours that fly- 
In blossoming time. That day had gone by 

For fruition now, and there was the frost 

With Death's own touch on the dry stalk crossed 
By no flower or fruit. So deep they lie 
The roots that send up for us by and by 

The bloom and the fruit that we tho't were lost. 

Did they forget? Ah, the turn of the years 
Oft shows a blossoming soul we had thought 

But a barren life, and then appears 
A beauty and use we had vainly sought 

In the bloom of a day. Yet men judge so 

Forgetting perennial's growth in the snow. 



36 



Brierdale in Arcady 

Who e'er sang of Love's own vale — 
Arcady the beautiful — 

And gave hint of hidden dale 
Where the brier roses grow 
In tangled beauty thorn-pinned so 

That no sweethearts e'er have found 

Pathway through to smoother ground ? 

Yet, 't is there, all lovers know, 
There in lovely Arcady. 

But Love's rose-red petals glow 
So enchanting that they see 
Naught but Rose of Arcady, 

Presto ! what a change may be 

Quickly seen in Arcady 

When two lovers, unawares. 
Meet the thorns in hiding there ! 

Yet, O sweethearts ! Eros, kind 

Built that thorny hedge you find. 
For the dearest place of all 
Lies beside that thorn-hid wall. 



37 



Love's Path 

You want to climb far heights subUme 

When you love. 
Romance says, *'Nay, no mountains gray 

For true love/' 

All stories tell of fern and dell 

For Love's lore, 
And valleys deep alone can keep 

Fast Love's door. 

Your ideal keep and Love will sleep 

Ne'er to awake. 
The heights grow cold, have no warm fold 

For Love's sake. 

O sweetheart, choose ! but do not lose 

The path I go- 
Choose one too high for passerby 

But sweetly low. 



38 



The World at Large 

The world at large has countless treasure- 

My world none — 
Gold and rank and gems, but pleasures 

Scarcely one. 
In the world at large are mansions 

Men have built. 
But their cunning, costly fashions 

Hide much guilt. 
In the world at large are cities 

Vast and fair, 
Heartaches, too, that no one pities — 

Days of care. 
In my world no heartache passes 

Without sign — 
Quick the tender heart-throb flashes 

Love to mine. 
Leave your world and enter this one — 

Love is here : 
Let the world at large say which one 

God holds dear. 



39 



With the Edelweiss to the Sea 

In Switzerland there is a river 

Whose source is the ice and snow 
Far up on the Alpine summits, 

Where the Edelweiss only grows. 
There 's a quaint and beautiful fancy 

In a legend the Swiss still tell 
Of this flower of love and friendship 

And the river they know so well. 

They say that the Spirit of Flowers 

Will cast from the cliff above 
The delicate, snow-white blossoms — 

The beautiful emblem of love. 
They tell how the sun-touched petals 

Are first to bring warmth to the stream, 
Ice-locked on the mountain summit 

With the sea but a far-off dream. 

Then the blossoms forever are carried 

In the heart of the stream as it flows, 
Though the Spirit of Flowers grants others- 

E'en the beautiful Alpine rose. 
The peasants will watch thro' the village 

Where the banks are alluring and sweet 
With the songs of bird-sirens, enticing 

True lovers in tryst there to meet. 
40 



Through the shadows so cool and inviting 

The rustic will often peep low 
To see if his best loved river 

Still carries its blossoms of snow. 
And well for his faith that ever 

The Edelweiss snow he may see, 
For to him they are symbols perfect 

Of his dear one's constancy. 



41 



Fern Seed 

What was it, do you ask me, 

That threw oblivious shade 
Upon the merry dancers 

In all the masquerade ? 
Well, dear, you know the legend 

That he who holds the seed 
Of dainty fronds has magic 

To hide himself at need. 

You think that day is over — 

That no one stands within 
Our lighted, crowded parlors 

Who is not counted in. 
But the legend now reverses 

The old-time-magic power. 
For lost to me were all things 

But a long- forgotten hour. 

The palms and roses melted 

Into blossoms by a stile. 
And gorgeous, velvet sofas 

Were dusty steps the while. 
You spoke to me last evening : 

You even touched my hand. 
Before I felt your presence 

Within that shadow land. 

42 



My "fern seed" was a cluster 

Of wilding roses sweet 
That rested on the bosom 

Of your cousin Marguerite. 
A bridge of youthful memories 

Those brier roses threw 
Across the years — so many 

To a meadow in the dew. 

Beside the stile my sweetheart — 

Wild roses in her hair, 
Stood waiting where wild roses 

Were straggling everywhere. 
Upon the steps we rested 

In June's own perfumed air, 
While I tossed the dainty petals 

Upon her brow and hair. 

The human heart is stranger 

Than the legends ever tell ; 
It waits, long years it may be, 

To prove its weakness well. 
But some day comes a searchlight 

That throws in darkest shade 
The world that moves about you. 

And shows you where .you laid 

Long since, with never mourning. 
An hour with rapture fraught— 

So pure and holy that you only 
Its dimmest meaning caught. 



43 



Spring Rondelay 

O, Spring ! I am waiting for you, 
I have need of the blue 
In the hue of your bluebird's wing. 
I must have for my brush the hint 
Of your rosy finger's print. 

Tho' I paint, tho' I write, I cry, 
O, Season of Youth, draw nigh. 
What else for the artist's brush. 
What else for the poet*s touch ? 

For we sigh, if of Spring bereft 
What else for the world is left? 



44 



Stars in the Fire 

I am sixteen to-day! 

Life is wondrously gay. 
Tell me truly what joy without sorrow's alloy 
Stands waiting the hours of these slow years of ours. 

Come, tell me my fate 

Pretty stars in my grate, 
Foretelling power should dwell in the hour — 
It is night — it is late — now the witches should wait. 
Ah ! you sparkle and glow, but why tremble you so ? 
Does Fate, then, decree cruel things there for me ? 

No, it can not be sad 

With the whole world so glad. 

:{S >fs 5ff i{i 5k * 

I am sixty to-day. 

Life grows quiet and gray. 
But, stars in my grate, came you never so late. 
Still the Future so blank would the Past have to thank 

For its knowledge of Fate. 

Now, you whisper too late 

What Life's pages revealing 

Have told, naught concealing, 
.// your Past has been glad it can not be sad. 



45 



Nest Building 

High in the top of the stately elm, 
Or low in the lilac's plumy bush ; 

Snug in the eaves above the porch, 

Or down where the early morning flush 

Scarcely hints 'mid clods and stones. 
That day has broken the night-time hush. 

Building homes ! Does it matter, think, 
That each must differ in size and view? 

Does the chippy fret that the oriole 

Hangs safely dry from the drops of dew ? 

Nay, never jarring note is heard 
In nesting time, when love is true. 

Ever the same sweet home-note rings, 
Whether from lark or the gentle dove. 

Or patient chippy down in the grass, 
Or flashing jay in the blue above — 

Whether of twigs and down inlaced. 

Or of mud and stones, the note is — Love. 



46 



Locust Blossoms 

Just a tiny cluster of fragrant bloom 

That sent thought away 
From the office desk and the dingy room 

To a child at play. 

I saw the meadow and grassy swell 

Of my father's fields, 
I tasted the water from out a well 

That a windlass yields. 

O, weary the distance that lay between 

The blossoming years, 
And now I must see the familiar scene 

Thro' a mist of tears. 

For I 'd held in my heart Life's clamor for gold 

And would not heed 
The beautiful story the blossoms told 

Of love and its need. 



47 



Summer at the, Ohio Farm — 1886 

The golden-rod's plumes are nodding, 
Then Summer must surely go. 

The thistle-down brings the message, 
But I will not read it so. 

O, beautiful, beautiful Summer ! 

Turn back a cycle for me ; 
Hide deep in the iron-weed's purple — 

Too deep for the frost to see. 



48 



Summer at the Indiana Farm — 1897 

The thistle-down turned to snowflakes. 

The Frost's jeweled lance cut low 
The glorious beauty of Summer 

And covered it over with snow. 

But the years— ah ! they 've brought me 
New summers as fair as the old, 

For each new season returning 
The same sweet story has told. 



49 



A Rain in June 

Such soft, still sweeps of air ! 

No agonizing tempest there. 

One scarcely knew a storm was near 

Until the thunder met the ear. 

A hurried dash of sparkly drops, 

Like sudden pushing in of stops. 

They cease, and then a low, sweet strain 

On perfumed air brings the refrain. 

A catching up of all sweet scent — 
Rose, honeysuckle, locust blent, 
And o'er it all a rainbow throws 
Its trailing glory to a rose. 
Rain wet, it lifts its beauteous face 
More lovely with the tender trace 
Of recent tears to gently hide 
The haughty signs of queenly pride. 



50 



Apple Blossoms 

From a gnarled old tree, a spell 

Is flung as the spring air blows 

That comes not from lily or rose. 
Too deep for a lily-bell to tell 

Or a rose's fragrant breath to touch 

In the glorious summer's hush. 

'T is a fragrance sweet that long ago 
Lay in a blossom's roseate glow. 

It is more than a present sense. 

'T is a clear, delicious thrill 

With a subtle hint of will 
That can laugh with a joy intense 

Through the years when our feet must stray 

So far from the orchard way. 



51 



June Songs 

June songs are old but ever new, 
The rhythmic music running through 
The sweet June days. No song of pen 
Can ever bring such sounds to men. 
And when they fade — for June must go 
With summer roses 'neath the snow, 
Their memory Hfts our thoughts away 
From present gloom to perfect day ; 
To lands beyond all finite gloom. 
Where never Time can change the bloom. 
No "rose of warning" blossoms there 
In all that heavenly perfumed air. 
But all that makes our June so fair 
Is multiplied and garnered there. 



52 



Sapphire and Opal 

Only sand and clay ! Yet the azure sky 
Drops low in the one like a summer sea, 
And we call it a type of constancy ; 

The other, with wonderful tints that fly 

Reflecting bright hues of the days that die 
With to-morrow a sweet uncertainty. 
Only sand and clay ! For ages, may be, 

Have the hurrying crowds oft passed them by. 

Then a morning dawned when a master's eye 
Pried deep in the complex veins of the clay 

And freed the opaline tints of the sky. 
And a skillful touch on the sands so gray 

Showed the Sapphire's blue of a sky serene. 

We cry. So dull a world that had not seen ! 

O, Master of souls ! Do we fail to see 
Through our mortal clay the likeness to Thee? 



53 



The Shadow of Summer 

The snow lay heaped by the roadside, 

And Winter reigned supreme. 
Dead leaves were whirling with snowflakes 

And Summer seemed like a dream. 
^'Summer is dead as my youth is," 

I said. ''There is naught but cold ; 
Warmth and flowers and summer 

All fail us as we grow old." 

Chance led my steps to the doorway 

And there, as I looked at the sky. 
Across the western horizon 

A shadow was drifting by — 
A soft, sweet mountain of color, 

Warmth on its downy crest — 
A peace, like the Summer noontide, 

And full of its quiet rest. 

No shadow e'er fell without substance ; 

Somewhere a summer must be 
To throw such a perfect shadow 

For doubting eyes to see. 
Perhaps in some far-oflf Southland 

The bloom and the warmth await 

The magic turn of the Seasons 

To unlock the golden gate. 
54 



And so, tho' the snow lies heavy 

On meadow and brook and lawn, 
I think of that beautiful promise. 

No summer is wholly gone. 
And hopefully turn from the shadow 

To substance of comfort rare, 
That somewhere God hath in keeping 

Our youth with its summers fair. 



55 



Through Country Lanes 

From the woods a quail is calling, "Bob White!'' 
Then a bobolink's sweet tinkle breaks the flight 
Of the meadow lark slow rising from the grass 
Lest you cross her tiny threshold as you pass. 

Wheatfields lying in that emerald sheen 

Of sunshine only in the springtime seen. 

All the woods and fields a-thrill with touches 

Of the spring — bird songs followed by the hushes 

Sweet and solemn, the soft folding up of wings 

When the bird has trilled Spring's own interpretings. 

O, the long, still days of Summer! when the wheat 
Turns to gold and rose-hedge tangles ope to meet 
Parent birds with love-notes telling doubt is past: 
Flittings, chirpings, sweet beguilings theirs at last. 

O, the Autumn! when the purple aster throws 
Royal color where the rod of Midas glows. 

And the Winter ! when transfigured fence-posts stand 
Marble columns, leading us to fairy land. 



56 



The Forsaken Road 

A strange unrest forever is urging 
Earth's creatures to turn to paths that are new , 
Closing old highways and leaving the blue 

Violets free in the grasses surging 

Over the road, while a new, diverging, 
Turns from the old paths that our fathers knew. 

Even the fledglings gayly immerging 
Into the road from the nests in the grass 

Bear away restless seed plumes as they flee, 
Seeking the lands of mirages that pass 

Like countries a-near to the ships on the sea. 

Forsaken ? O, no ! Still memories pass — 

Ever they 're traveled — ^the roads 'neath the grass. 



57 



Sing 

" The morning stars sang together/* 

—Job. 

Give US songs in summer weather, 

Sing with bird and bee. 
Let all joyful tones in Nature 

Find their chord in thee. 

Give us songs 'mid blinding snowflakes, 

Find the harmony of stars 
In the icy, whirling crystals 

Dropped from worlds afar. 

Sing, tho' trembling lips refuse thee, 
Through the agony of years 

Thou wilt learn the wordless music 
God can fashion out of tears. 



58 



The Rest in the Music 

I listened, once, to melody so rare, 
So sweet and new to me, I found my breath 
Close held, as stifling in embrace of death ; 

Too near divine, it seemed, for mortal ear to bear. 

So lately stunned with earth's discordant blare. 
Like traveler fleeing from the height where death 
Seems sure to follow every trembling breath, 

I would have fled the soul's diviner air ; 
But swift a silence fell, while yet the beat 

Of rhythmic measure thro' my senses sped, 
And I grew strong the melody to greet, 

While waiting till the Rest its time had led 
Beyond that pause where then the ear could meet, 
With quickened sense, the sounds divinely sweet. 

Since then, when some strange silence falls between 
The joys of life, I hush my sobs and wait 

For One who leads Life's harmonies unseen ; 
And sweet and strange it is that, soon or late, 

The melody returns ; my grateful heart 

Finds larger joy in each harmonious part. 



59 



Elspeth Knitting 

Hop vines clambering o'er the door 
Fretting shadows on the floor. 
What does Elspeth sit and knit, 
Smiling as the shadows flit 
O'er the dainty snood she holds ? 

O, she 's knitting in its folds 
Thoughts too sweet and dear to tell,. 
And the needles knit them well. 

Snowflakes flying in the air — 
Elspeth, knitting in her chair. 
Smiles no more but sees thro' tears 
What the needles knit those years 
When her youth and beauty found 
Dreams by fairy shadows bound. 
Raveled yarn she knits so slow 
While she dreams of long ago. 



60 



Margaret's Youth 

When do you think there laid 
A rose on her bonnie braid? 
'"Never," you say, and smile,. 
Seeing the gray the while. 

But where was her youth ? you ask, 
And it seems like an angel's task 
To answer you, telling where 
The youth that all should share 
Was kept by Life's shadows hid 
Till the years no more could bid 
It forth for her. But there ! 
In the dear old face so fair 
One may read it now, in truth. 

'T is Heaven has kept her youth 
And with no earthly stain 
'T is Heaven will give again. 



61 



Little Rhody 

Such a common, freckled face, 
No one dreamed it could give place 
To a saintly one so fair 
That a halo rested where 
Just that morn, a hat, all torn, 
Hid the tangled curls forlorn. 
No one saw the child of ten 
When we found a need for men. 

'T was in early seventy-three 
When we built that church, you see 
And I own it now with shame. 
We were bound to have the name 
Of the tallest spire about. 
So we searched a builder out 
That would plan one higher still 
Than our brethren's on the hill. 

It was building — almost done — 
One June morning, when the sun 
Shone so bright we all could see 
The scaffolding above the tree. 
Suddenly a flash of blue. 
That was not the sky's own hue. 
Caught the eye on topmost peak. 
For one instant, who could speak? 
62 



Then a loud cry of despair 
Joined a mother's, till the air 
Seemed a wail of sorrow born 
Out of time on such sweet morn. 
William Abbott's little Jim, 
Just past three, had followed him. 
How he got there — who could tell ? 
Tho' he climbed so wondrous well. 

All the men had laughed to see 
The little lad go up the tree, 
But we think a branch had bent 
Toward the church, and out he went 
'Till a spring could land him where 
He could climb the scaffold there. 
There he clung so near the sky- 
Scarce was heard his baby cry. 

In the frantic crowd below 
There seemed none so brave to go 
Up the shaking scaffold way 
That the men had loosed that day : 
For the father, climbing down 
From inside, heard not a sound. 

Was there none the babe to save ? 
Strong and stalwart men are brave, 
But a little lass of ten 
Far surpassed their courage then. 
63 



Up the creaking boards she flew — 

A tiny figure, hat askew, 

With the tangled curls aflame 

In the sunlight. 

In His name 

Men have suffered much and won 

Credit oft for good deeds done. 

But He said it, and 't was shown — 
"Greater love hath no man known'' 
Than when one will gladly yield 
His own life to be a shield 
For the other. 

Up she hurried 
While men knelt with faces covered. 

When the babe at last she caught 
Quick descending, all had thought 
No more danger could appall. 
And a shout went up from all. 
But alas ! the board was gone 
That the child had mounted on 
From the tower window out 
To the roof and space without. 

One remaining was too slight 
For united weight, tho' light ; 
Without instant's pause she led 
Baby Jim upon the thread 
64 



That only promised life for one. 
Safely o'er, her work was done, 
For strong hands were ready there 
To take the babe and give a care 
To the trembling girl that stood 
On that slender bridge of wood. 
For one instant Rhody's face 
Shone beyond the open space. 
Then the frail support was gone ! 

Friends, when next we looked upon 
That little face, we found 
A beauty circling it around 
Never earthly face could wear, 
For the seal of death was there. 
And a halo seemed to glow 
O'er her head, like pictures show 
Of the Christ whose '^greater love" 
Took her kindred soul above. 



65 



" Jess Nice and Comfor'able " 

Poor Jack had not heard yet of heaven 

As a city whose streets were of gold. 
No hint of its manifold splendors, 

Its beauty and grandeur untold. 
He had never read in a Bible, 

Nor listened to sermon or song 
Setting forth the glories of Heaven 

And all of its ransomed throng. 

But a noble mission teacher 

Had touched, with a skill inspired. 
The only key that could open 

The darkened, mivSguided mind. 
She never mentioned the pavement 

Of gold and the jeweled gate; 
She had an intuitive knowledge 

That such a description must wait. 

She gathered the street boys about her 
And told them of One who had had 

But few more comforts and pleasures 
Than the least and most sorrowful lad. 

Then, setting down simply commandments- 
Do not steal — do not lie — do not fight. 

She made plain to the listening street boys 
That a heavenly home was their right. 
66 



Poor Jack felt a glow of approval 
In his poor, little desolate heart. 

This promise of spiritual comfort 
In his mind of the body was part. 

He knew that death must bestow this, 

But his fears were gone at the thought 
That then he could have the comforts 

That he had so vainly sought. 
His thin, blackened face was uplifted — 

His lips softly moved as in prayer, 
Then he cried in ecstatic wonder, 

^'It 's jess nice and comfortable there!" 



67 



A Legend of Exmoor 

In that country we call The Doone's Land, 
We hear tales, the strangest told, 

Of beautiful, helpful fairies 

And wizards both bad and bold. 

This tale I would tell had a wizard, 

Beyond all the others in power. 
Who had chosen the highest mountain 

And built an eight-sided tower. 
The architect was a spider — 

As black as the night was he — 
And his geometrical figure 

Was a wonderful thing to see : 
Eight sides, with a window opening — 

Thus the castle grew apace 
Until the wizard commanded 

A glimpse into infinite space. 

Then woe to the luckless creature 

Who felt the effect of his look, 
Or read the dreadful meaning 

Of a wizard finger-crook. 
For years he plied this magic 

With never a checking hand ; 
For none could withstand the evil 

In all that Exmoor land. 
68 



But one day a pilgrim journeyed 

In sight of that castle grim ; 
And the wizard saw, and straightway 

He gayly beckoned him. 
The pilgrim was sad and weary, 

His feet left bleeding tracks ; 
His staff was worn with climbing, 

And the castle road was back, 
But he felt that such a monster 

Had need of a priest to pray, 
Tho' he grieved that so vile a hindrance 

Should stay his onward way. 

Then he turned his face to the castle. 
Where the wizard smiled in hate, 

Thinking his will had ordered 
The pilgrim to pass his gate. 

He cried, "Come in, good comrade V' 
But the priest stood still at the door. 

"Nay, that will I not," said he, "but thou- 
Ah ! thou shalt come forth no more. 

Unless, indeed, thou hast done some good- 
Be it only once, to a creature of God : 

If only that thou hast saved a worm 
From crushing under the sod.'' 



69 



Then the wizard thought thro' his Hfe of sin, 

If ever his heart had cared to know 
The warmth and peace of a kindly deed. 

But alas, alas ! The seed we sow. 
If thistles alone, can it yield sweet fruit? 

*'Just one," urged the priest. "The time goes fast." 

The wizard, all haggard with fear and pain, 

Watched closely the scenes of his life that passed. 

But never a generous deed was there ; 
Ever his po'wer had been for ill ; 

Ever some victim had yielded up 
Life or substance to please his will. 

As the castle shook, "Aye, truly !" he cried, 
"There is one, good sir, only one — now go!" 

"Then name him quick," said the priest, "for, see! 
The tower is reeling! Why wait ye so?" 

"Myself!" shrieked the wizard, "myself alone." 

"Alas !" said the priest, with his cross held high. 
While the air grew dark and towers crashed, 

"Who cares for himself alone, must die ; 
For God has written, no man can live 

Who never the threads of love doth take 
To bind him fast to the Infinite Life 

That yielded all for the sinner's sake." 

70 



Then the castle and wizard in darkness sank 

To the hideous depths of a marshy sea. 
But the pilgrim went on to a sunny spot, 

And built a chapel on Exmoor lea, 
Where ever the world, as it passes, feels 

Only the touch of a power for good. 
And an impulse grows to help mankind 

To a broad and generous brotherhood. 



71 



Defying Fate 

•* Run, Spindles, run, and weave the threads of doom.*' 

— Catullus 
Run, spindles, run. 

But leave undone 
That dark thread's somber crossing ; 

We '11 weave instead 

A wondrous thread 
With tints like rainbows tossing. 

Drop thread of doom 

And in its room 
We '11 join Hope's thread, believing 

That so ends care 

For all who wear 

The cloth of their own weaving. 



72 



O Nature, Unsympathetic ! 

O Nature, unsympathetic! 

We cry to thee in vain. 
We call thee Mother Nature, 

But we hear no sweet refrain 
To soothe our heart's rebellion 

When a Terror holds us fast — 
Nay, more, we find thee smiling, 

Tho' Death's own shadow passed. 

And often, often day dawns 

With rose tints hiding gray, 
When thou art all prophetic 

Of happiness alway. 
While there in the shadow waiting 

A life-long Sorrow stands 
That e'er the rose tints scatter 

Will clasp our trembling hands. 

Perhaps the Father means us 
To look beyond this earth 

With its sweet but changing beauty 
To the Power that gave it birth. 



73 



As Mahmoud Did 

Brave Mahmoud found at the temple's gate 
The idol, Summat, crowned in state. 

And the waiting crowd, 

With wailings loud,' 
Plead hard 'gainst their god's impending fate. 

Full well we know how the hero brave 
The tempting ransom refusal gave — 
How the axe's blow 
Showed the jewel's glow 
That the cunning heathen strove to save. 

Thank God, to-day, that the world can show 
Brave souls who stand by an idol so. 

They break, not sell, 

And we know full well 
Thro' the riven shrine what jewels glow. 



74 



Charity 

I found my friend like a folded flower 

Not fully blown. 
Ah ! folded thus, how rarely sweet 

Her virtues shone! 

One ill-starred hour I pulled apart 

A tiny leaf 
And found a faded, blemished spot 

Concealed beneath. 

I quickly folded back the leaf, 

But yet — I saw 
Thro' all the bloom so gayly shown 

That single flaw. 
Then one sweet morn, I, weeping. 

Thought of all the years 
That Love had kept the fault concealed, 

And thro' my tears 
I looked, when lo ! a wondrous thing, 

'T is past belief ! 
There was no change, but yet, I saw 

A perfect leaf. 



75 



Our Limitation 

If thou wouldst hold thy friend to thee 
Be sure that never day shall be 
When he may say, "I now know all 
That thou dost think, that thou dost call 
From out the farthest recess hid 
Within thy mind." Ah ! thou must bid 
A curtain fall and leave the folds 
Where, plainly shown, thy friend beholds 
And curious stands with questionings — 
''What hides he yet of wondrous things?" 

Then thou art safe, for friends depart 
When once they know thy utmost art. 



76 



Hatred in Nuhihus 

I built a wall to hide thee, 
Thou neighbor, that I hate ! 

Why, then, dost ever mock me 
By knocking at my gate ? 

The neighbor naught replying, 
I climbed the wall to see. 

When a vacant house my spying 
Alone revealed to me. 

My fancy did the leading 
Through those resentful years : 

My neighbor, never heeding, 
Had dwelt remote from fears. 



77 



Thy Beulah Land 

(Isaiah.) 

No more shall desolations fall 
Upon thy vales or mountains tall. 
The desert blossoms as the rose 
And sunshine, warm and mellow, glows 
On every hill. Rich fruits hang low 
And topmost boughs bend low and glow 
With ripening fruit. The fir tree stands 
Where once the thorn thrust spiny hands. 
And soft and sweet where briers grew 
The wind's low music murmurs through 
The myrtle boughs. O'er Achor's vales 
The herds repose : no foe assails, 
And Sharon shows warm, peaceful folds, 
Where flocks abound. All Nature holds 
Pair Gilead's balm for longing mind. 
O ! happy people, thus to find 
The touch of such a loving Hand 
Transforming earth to Beulah Land. 



78 



One Flower of All 

** Only one poor, little flower plowed under." 

— Alice Gary. 
The lily lifts its snowy cup 

In fragrance up. 
I know, indeed, the rose is here. 

The pinks appear 
In dear, old-fashioned places 

With loving faces. 
The maiden-hair waves dainty plumes 

From ferny homes. 
The woods are soft with moss, 

They know no loss. 

I still must grieve, e'en tho' you say 

That I some day 
Shall find full sheaves of golden wheat 

And treasures sweet 
Above the sod that hides my flower. 

Too sad the hour 
That turns the sod upon my one 

Whose sweet life 's done. 

— Written after the death of my dear little brother Frank. 



79 



Motherhood 

" Then said Elkanah her husband to her, Hannah, why 
weepest thou ? Am not I better to thee than ten sons ? ' * 

— I Samuel i, 8. 

Hear the low, sweet answer of the mother-heart — 

"God doth create two loves so far apart, 

My husband, that there Hes between 

A wide, deep river on whose breast serene 

A myriad golden chords doth bind and cross 

Each other, joining so that never any loss 

Of love is known to either, for He lays 

These wondrous threads, tho' running many ways, 

With one sure gathering in a mother's hand. 

I weep when I behold in all the land 

These happy mothers and I find my own 

Palm empty. Blame me not if here alone 

I go to pray : for I would lay my hand 

In thine, fast holding the sweet, thrilling band 

Of baby fingers. God will hear my prayer 

And grant to us a child, whose only care 

Will be to make the world more true and good 

For Him who gave the gift of motherhood. 



80 



Identification 

Now, why should I call this child of the street 

A kinsman of mine? 
What crest can he show of the curious design 
That the world, which I honor, shall know is a sign 

Of kinsman of mine? 

Ah ! behind him is standing One ready to greet 
Him as son — my Father ! how can I repeat 
Any challenge to him ? 'T is a brother I meet 
With a bond all complete. 



81 



The Brother of Low Estate 

** Bowed by the weight of centuries, he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox.** 

—Edwin Markham in " The Man With the Hoe." 

"Brother to the ox !" Is this the meaning 

Upon the roughened palm, the stooping back ? 

The long, close-written pedigree that lacks 
No record of continuous toil? Gleaning 

No hour of joy, no recompense? Leaning 
Across the years, do we find only racks 
Of torture? See but stupid, backward tracks. 

With never upturned face to read the meaning 
The Lord God writes upon the "peaks of song?" 

O God, forbid! Shall we judge all the yield 
That to the centuries' harvesting belongs 

By one sad, straggling growth within the field ? 
Time's tragedy is there, and cruel wrongs 

That centuries have made and left unhealed. 

But surely 'gainst the dreary canvas falls 

Some gleam of light upon that "slanted brow." 

The "silence of the centuries" allows 

Interpretation now, as bugle call. 

To set our own to thundering at the wall 

To let in light. By so much he is now 

Above his dumb yoke-fellow at the plow. 

82 



So far, he 's past the darkest hour of all ; 

By so much he is nearer to the dawn, 
Though still he 's deaf to "music of the spheres/^ 

Who made him dull ? By whom were drawn 
Those bars that doomed a Soul to stunted years 

Instead of growth ? — why question ? We are born 
To free him. Why yield, then, to childish fears? 

There 's One who helps. He grants us all a place 
To grow, though blind to Pleiades' far swing 
Across the sky : though deaf to music's ring 

In rapturous dream: though dull to Nature's grace, 

Yet as safe-hidden in its wondrous case. 
The chrysalis, with patient, folded wing. 
Brooks never once man's clever mastering. 

So lives the stunted peasant, brute in face 
And gesture, holding what man can not mar 

Nor make. Lift cruel hands, O masters ! Wait 
And work with One who hides the tyrant's scar. 

He presses back with Love compassionate 
The dreadful Terror threatening near and far. 

Cease wailing o'er the world's impending fate, 

For God is with the man of low estate. 



83 



The Brotherhood of Man 

What means it now, this current phrase^ 

Rung out so oft in many ways ? 

We asked, and we v/ere answered soon. 

A-down the scorching street that noon 

We saw a boy come creeping o'er 

The burning pave. Foot-sore 

And weary. Lagging feet 

Made never haste the shade to meet. 

A comrade came from out a gate : 

"Hi, Jocky, run," he called, "you 're late!" 

For answer, Jocky shook his head 

And raised a blistered foot instead. 

No shoes ! The stones had burnt the flesh 

To torturing state. Each step afresh 

The misery grew. Then down 

The comrade knelt ; his brown 

Hands swiftly loosed his ragged shoe, 

Revealing there the blisters, too. 

He thrust it toward the suffering lad. 
"Here, take it, Jock ; mine ain't so bad." 
Then, quickly turning, sped away. 
Then we, through tears, beheld the Way, 
The Truth, the Life, as One had taught 
Long since, and Brotherhood had wrought. 

84 



Ploughed Under 

A turn of the plough and the Hght was gone, 
With a darkness drawn too close and deep 
For a hint of dawn to the seeds asleep. 

Asleep in the dark ! Could a dream be there, 
That high in the air was a lark's clear call 
To the daylight fair ? But was it a dream ? 

O, Power of Life ! 

What a puny strife 
Man sets for Thee 

When the air is rife 
With a will to he. 
Yet man has not read immortality. 



.85 



Her Gift 

**The great Artificer, in putting together your individual 
nature, did not forget this crowning gift any more than He forgets 
o add its own fragrance to the arbutus or its own song to the 
ark." —Frances E. Willard in "How to Win." 

What was it, then, for her, — 

This matchless thing 
Which nothing should deter 

From taking wing ? 

What power, latent, still 

Lay folded in 
The chrysalis of will 

To help her win ? 

No rhythmic melody of thought 

Was hers ; no speech 
Quick flowing at the moment sought ; 

Nor could she teach. 

No special duty came 

To view. Alway 
Her work-days were the same, 

Day after day. 

Then, bowing low, she prayed, 

Lord, show me light. 
For truly Thou hast made 

This clearer sight. 
86 



And since I see, wilt Thou 
Grant further gift, 

And teach me where and how 
Mine eyes to lift? 

After long, weary years 
Of earnest seeking, 

She found with quiet tears 
Her gift in keeping. 

For Patience, gift so rare. 
Had crowned her days, 

And brought her now to share 
The winner's praise. 



87 



Let the Flag be There 

— After hearing an old soldier say, *' There 's too many 
flowers, I can't see the flag.** 

Long ago, when we marched away, 
Flowers and flags made pathways gay. 
Roses lay on the coats of blue, 
Flung by sweethearts dear and true. 

Flowers and flags ! But e'er the hour 
Of parting passed lay every flower 
Withered and dead : a sadder thing, 
O comrades, then for the breeze to fling 
Than the bonnie stars that floated high 
With a deathless beauty toward the sky. 

Lay it over the roses red. 
It came back with the heroes dead ; 
It went with them thro' strain of heart 
Life and country and death a part. 
Whether a shroud or a banner free. 
Ever the flag was there to see. 
Over the graves lay flowers fair. 
But over all, may our flag be there ! 
Memorial Day, 1896. 



88 



The Outgrown Nest 

But you ask, "Is Life 
Forever at strife 

With a growth to be?" 
O, no ! for the wings 
Of these fledgling things 

Will larger grow. 
When the need to fly 
To the far, blue sky, 

Where their nest-mates go. 



89 



Questionings 

A world so still at our feet 
That we hear its pulses beat 
With a rhythmic, monotonous repetition, 
So free from strife. 

Then the beautiful calm is lost 
And the pulse is fever tossed 
In a maddening, struggling competition. 
Now, which is Life? 



90 



With Broken Harp 

Life met me with a broken harp 

And bade me sing : 
Then filled my soul with strangely sweet 

Interpretings. 

I wept, rebellious, when I saw 

The broken thing 
And knew the rhythm in my soul 

I ne'er should sing. 

No sadder thing can be, I cried, 

Than this — to sing 
The soul's melodious rhapsodies 

With broken string. 

But years have taught this sadder thing— 

A harp complete, 
Yet in the soul discordant sounds 

Its chords to meet. 



91 



Found 

— Rossetti*s unfinished picture called *' Found" shows a 
countryman meeting his sweetheart, who had been lost, in every 
sense, in London. 

So much we see upon the canvas thrown — 
The London Bridge ; the rustic lover's swift, 
Despairing look for aid, as he would lift 

The fainting girl, who crouches 'gainst the stone 

And begs him to leave her and her guilt alone. 
O, sad, unfinished theme ! We read no shrift 
For sinning soul. We see no jot of sorrow lift 

From that young face, now old with anguish grown. 

We dream their story, writ in country lane— ^ 
A tender pastoral. We question how the maid 

E'er left its music for the harsh refrain 
Of city streets. O skillful brush, that laid 

The sequel bare ! O artist wise, to drain 

Thy pigments dry ! Man's touch would seem profane. 



92 



Hester Prynne 

*'She will not speak ! '* — Dimmersdale in **The Scarlet Letter." 

Y.ea, silent yet, tho' hushed they stand and wait — 

That crowd, all silent, too, with judging stare 

More keenly felt and harder still to bear 
Than all their censure. Can she love or hate 
So well that she can hold the guilty mate 

Of her own sin a secret, now, to keep 

Through such disgrace ? 

Aye, tho' the babe should weep. 
She will not speak, "Hester, speak; 't is not too late/' 

The pastor's voice, entreating, silence broke, 
While o'er the scarlet letter shone the sun, 

And Hester saw and heard and woke 
As from a dream. _"Nay, it is done: 

I '11 bear the shame alone!" O, woman's heart! 

This could not be, did God not bear a part. 



93 



Plagiarism 

What plagiarists you are, ye poets crowned, 

Who write us verse to bring the moonlit night 

A-near, interpreting to duller sight 
Poetic beauties that you say abound 
In Nature's strongholds, ne'er to be found 

Save by a Poet's prying. While you write, 

One, listening in the woods with never right 
To scholar's gown, interprets all the sound 

From primrose banks of whip-poor-will's clear call. 
You make no clearer "music of the spheres" 

When you repeat the scene in rhythmic fall 
Of many words. With lifted hat, he hears 

In those bird-notes the wondrous theme of all 
Thy poems, nay, has heard them all the years. 



94 



Why Waits Queen Summer? 

Why waits Queen Summer when the Autumn haze 
Comes stealing thro' the gates that open wide 
On frosty hinge ? Ah ! gathered at her side, 

Rose spirits keep a tryst made those June days 

When, wild with joy in rose-embowered ways, 
Queen Summer promised, in her joy and pride, 
Returning bloom to every rose that died. 

With trailing scepter, now, she turns to gaze 
On generous Autumn. 

Will he aid her now ? 

For answer, lo ! the woods and fields aglow 
With tints incarnate of that reckless vow 

In far-off June, but yet no roses blow 
For perfume ; life of every rose is lost 
In all the jeweled splendor of the frost. 



95 



Indian Summer 

O ! Autumn, hang thy crimson banners low 

And hide the frost-tipped maple leaves, for see,. 
The Summer has not gone : far o'er the lea 

E'en now we hear midsummer sounds and know 

How glad the cricket is for mellow glow 
Of summer sun to warm him. Melody 
From birds now southward bound in ecstasy 

We hear, late flying thro' the thistle's snow. 

O, man ! Be glad that in life's later years 
There comes this quiet time e'er yet the frost 

Shuts out Life's summer. Stay thy wearing fears 
And see again the joys you thought were lost. 

For lo ! no happier thing in life we know 

Than this returning dream of long ago. 



96 



The Thanksgiving Test 

The years hold each a time when we may test 
Our own progression in the race we run 
So fast we scarce can see if we have done 

That which maturer judgment may call best. 

Full oft we question with a quickened zest 
For better things. Was that a goal well won? 
Or was it reached by meanly shoving one 

Aside more weary grown with greater need of rest? 

Give thanks! The clear command strikes thro' the 
mind 

With rapid search for cause for Thankfulness. 
If we can find but selfishness defined 

In our review 't is certain we have less 
Progression made than one long left behind 

Who 's helped some other soul to happiness. 



97 



The Day's Reckoning 

When morning dawned for us, what wondrous deeds 
To help the world did we resolve to do ! 
With joyful haste did we begin to strew 

The way with flowers plucked in dewy meads — 

Sweet, common blossoms that we tho't were weeds. 
And hastened on to where, with purpose true, 
We might do service, knowing not that few 

Great deeds are numbered in the World's deep needs. 

And lo! in the swift journey of the day 

This was revealed. No greater deed was done 

Than that first cheerful strewing of the way 
With bloom where tired feet had hourly run 

On greater errands. 

Yet blind are we 

Who watch Life's distant heights so wistfully. 



98 



St. Silverus: A Christmas Legend 

Long, long ago there came a peasant lad 

With his own Yuletide sheaf of perfect wheat, 
And stood, with modest looks, in wait, to greet 

The wondrous King. Around him rang the glad 

Hosannas ; but his heart grew strangely sad 
To see the hungry birds, too weak to meet 
The peasant's blows, fly here and there with sweet, 

Imploring cries. At last, he sobbed, "Yea, Lord, I had 
A perfect sheaf ; but these so hungry arc. 

What can I do but give?" Then, wondrous thing! 
The birds, with carols sweet, flew to a star, 

And Silverus, in trembling haste, did bring 
His sheaf ; for lo ! the Holy One afar. 

With tender smile, did take his offering. 



99 



An Autumn Thought 

When Autumn throws that witching, amber haze 
O'er woods and hills and dales as if to hide 
The splendor of the world on every side, 

We know 't is Nature's tenderness that lays 

A shadow lest we shrink from Winter's grays, 
Whose sentinels of frost e'en now abide 

Near every gorgeous plant whose bloom has died 
E'er yet the coming of the bleak, cold days. 

So age doth find a dimming veil between 
Life's sweet, entrancing dreams of green and gold, 

Like the autumnal haze thro' which are seen 
The quiet grays so near — the story told 

Of all the bloom and seed that now lies low 

In patient waiting for the Winter's snow. 



100 



MAY 10 1909 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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